


the second in command and his loyal king

by necklace



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Pre-Canon, Threats of Violence, i only made them a year younger but Still, kusanagi has a potty mouth tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necklace/pseuds/necklace
Summary: kusanagi izumo is not a force to be reckoned with.-If he were a smarter man he'd knock it the fuck off and let his anger simmer away, but he didn't inherit a bar at 18 to make smart decisions, let alone smart decisions concerning an age-old friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Правая рука и его верный король](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585314) by [K_Project_team](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Project_team/pseuds/K_Project_team), [Maru_Kusanagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maru_Kusanagi/pseuds/Maru_Kusanagi)



Kusanagi Izumo is not in the mood for this. His day has been rough already, first with three glasses breaking within the span of an hour, second being Anna, the angel, playing a new game that got three of their members concussed, and third with several new spiderweb cracks in one of the windows by the couch. And now, lastly (he hopes), with Suoh Mikoto, fresh from a fight with the Blue King and blood dripping from a cut in his forehead. 

 

If Izumo was anyone but himself, he'd have thoroughly smacked around the Red King enough to put him unconscious for a few days. Maybe he'd be able to actually do his job in peace and quiet, or maybe he'd get to sleep for more than five hours a night, or _maybe_ , if he was truly lucky, he wouldn't be stuck with his asshole best friend in the first place. Instead of being anyone but himself, Izumo slams one hand down on the bar's sleek counter and forcibly steals the attention of the room from the uncomfortable silence within it. 

 

(Unfortunately for him, his hand still has a clean glass in it. Izumo can feel the blood pooling onto his bar when the whiskey glass shatters under this kind of force, can feel the shards lodging into his palm, but he can also feel the rush of adrenaline from both the pain and everyone's worried eyes on him. Mikoto in particular looks slightly more on-edge than usual.) 

 

In a blind state of incredulity, the only thing Izumo can think of is the fact that he didn't brush his hair today, and that it's unsightly to have this many people staring at him with so many floofty blonde locks out of place. He might be becoming his mother, and that might terrify him a little more than the fact that his counter top will be stained to all hell after this. 

 

"Listen the fuck up, children," Izumo sneers, both palms flat on the bar top. He sees Tatara flinch where he's sitting with Anna on the couch and cruelly thinks _Good_ _. Let him see._ "I'm not in the mood for this today. I'm not in the mood for now _four_ broken glasses, or the fact that three of you have fucking concussions, or that I need to replace that entire front window because _some of you_ ," he fixed a glare towards Yata, "decided to skateboard in the bar, or that our dumbass King refuses to listen to me. Do you know what happens when you don't listen to me, you _dick_? People get hurt. How much property damage have you caused today? How many fuckin' casualties are ya aware of this time?" He directs the last part towards Mikoto, lifting one hand to point a crimson finger in the King's face. If he were a smarter man he'd knock it the fuck off and let his anger simmer away, but he didn't inherit a bar at 18 to make smart decisions, let alone smart decisions concerning an age-old friend. 

 

His tone must sound a lot angrier than he intended, but he doesn't care. There's a puddle on his bar counter right now but the only thing Izumo can focus on is the slightly singed hair behind Mikoto's right ear, the droplets of blood on the King's shirt, the glass lodged in his hand. 

 

"All of you. Every single fuckin' one of you, _get out_." Izumo's accent, already thick with pain, can and will not hesitate to cut the flesh from the bones of his HOMRA members who dare to stay in his way while he's angry like this. 

 

Thankfully, Izumo didn't need to suggest anything twice. The bar is nearly completely empty less than fifteen seconds later, its only occupants being the King and his second in command and the dust that hasn't settled. 

 

"You're bleeding." 

 

"No fucking _shit_ , Sherlock," Izumo snaps, stepping back from the counter to head towards the slop sink in the back room. He hears Mikoto stand up from his seat and follow him, but the King isn't stupid enough to touch him, let alone speak, while Izumo turns the faucet on. The handles that control the flow have always been a tricky thing, but the perfect water temperature is always easy to accomplish with a little fiddling. The handles give under his shaking persuasion, even if Izumo's non dominant hand has to do the work this time 'round. 

 

Three twists forward, one twist backward, a nudge. It's consistent, and he focuses on that for a few seconds to let the water figure itself out. 

 

Since some of the bigger chunks of glass in his hand has fallen into the sink already, it doesn't take much more to pull out some of the medium-sized pieces in his hand under the flow of lukewarm water. A gentle twist backwards in an attempt to persuade the handle, and the faucet is spewing out warmer water to help open up his hand more. The inside of the sink is absolutely red, beautiful blood red, but with more glass he guides out, the pinker it becomes. 

 

"Kusanagi." 

 

"No." 

 

"Listen to me, just for right now. I am a King." 

 

"You’re my best friend first, who just so happens to be King. What do you want?" 

 

A pause. 

 

"For you to not worry as much as you did just now." 

 

"Something more realistic, please," Izumo grinds out, wincing as the last tiny piece of glass is pushed from under his skin like a stubborn splinter. More could be hiding in the palm of his hand for all he knows, but he doesn't much care for that right now; his entire forearm is shaking something fierce and Izumo is _not_ in the mood to deal with it. The pain is just now starting to sink in with the loss of adrenaline, and. Well. If he didn’t want this to get infected, he'd have to wrap it. 

 

Or maybe clean his bar and _then_ wrap it? No. No, definitely wrap it a little bit first, there's still the rest of the broken glass on the counter and he doesn't want any more under his skin. 

 

The bar counter he works behind day in and day out in an attempt to keep some semblance of normalcy, to keep a shred of what his family was, for the new family he protects. The broken glass residing in the bar he operates to help put food in Anna's mouth, in everyone's mouth, the way that he couldn't do for himself when he was younger. 

 

 _Fuck_. If he hadn't gotten angry this wouldn’t have happened. He forgets, sometimes, that Mikoto is younger than him, the majority of HOMRA is younger than Mikoto, that they're all just kids with the power to burn skyscrapers to the ground. He shouldn’t have lost his patience like that, and especially not with Anna in the room with them to witness his temper. She has never deserved to see such things from him, and he'll need to have a serious talk with her later about how to avoid angry men, especially men that have the capacity to scare her. She doesn't need to get hurt because she sees Izumo mad and knows she can help, and he can't let her apply that to other people, no matter what. 

 

He must have been thinking for longer than he thought. He hears Mikoto step into the back room behind him, though Izumo isn't quite sure when he left in the first place. In his hands Mikoto holds gauze, a roll of white bandages, and at least three types of disinfectants. Izumo raises an eyebrow at them, dragging his eyes up to meet Mikoto's in a silent question. 

 

"I wasn't sure which one to grab," the King intones, setting the products on the counter next to the sink. Izumo doesn't say anything, but he sighs and resigns himself to his fate and pulls over a spare stool from the corner, settling on it in an attempt to feel comfortable. 

 

Without hesitation, Mikoto sets to work disinfecting the visible cuts with all three disinfectants. Christ, this man is ridiculous. Without a cigarette in his mouth and his hair flopping haphazardly over his forehead, he almost looks seventeen again, a tongue poking from between his lips in absolute concentration. Next comes the gauze, and then, when Mikoto is sure the things are in place, he starts to wrap the white bandages over Izumo's hand tight enough to keep everything in. The only problem is that the bandages don't cover the cuts on Izumo's fingers, but it seems like Mikoto has a solution for even that; a box of Anna's Totoro bandaids is pulled from his back pocket. 

 

"Really?" Izumo snorts. 

 

"We never have normal bandages anymore. Now, do you want me to kiss them better or not?" Mikoto huffs, dead serious. He brings his eyes to look into Izumo's, and, yeah. Suoh Mikoto, twenty-three, is absolutely serious about kissing a twenty-seven year olds insignificant wounds better. 

 

"Do you know how many diseases you can get from that?" Izumo blurts out. He blinks, regains himself, then sighs. "Fine, but only after you put the bandages on." 

 

It takes more time than necessary to get the little fuckers on, both men swearing more than acceptable at the unnecessarily tiny bandaids. Mikoto's fingers are too clumsy for trying to open them, and Izumo's hands are still shaking from the pain, forcing the men to work together just to get enough bandaids open. 

 

All in all, five minutes later, Kusanagi Izumo has seven Totoro bandaids adorning the fingers on his left hand. Mikoto, the bastard, almost looks too pleased with himself. 

 

"Oh no, you don't get away from this unscathed. If you wash the blood off yer face, yer getting' one of these little fuckers too," Izumo warns, bringing his good hand up to prod at the cut on Mikoto's forehead. 

 

Mikoto suddenly doesn't look as smug, wincing under the attack from Izumo's finger. 

 

The most surprising part is that the King doesn't argue about needing his own Totoro bandaid. Maybe Izumo should get angry more often if it means Mikoto actually fuckin' listens to what he has to say for once in his life, even if that requires watching the mighty Red King bow before a slop sink to remove a trail of blood from his face. 

 

Once he's done, Izumo has already fiddled with the bandaid enough to get it open, smiling wide in an attempt to fully rid himself of the all-consuming anger and guilt from ten minutes earlier. Mikoto doesn't buy it for a minute, but once he's done drying his forehead with his shirt, he bends down enough to allow easy access to the comparatively tiny cut. 

 

"Yer good," Izumo grins after making sure the little Totoro was in place. Mikoto stays at his level, though, two hands coming down to rest on Izumo's thighs for stability. 

 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Mikoto asks. As an afterthought, Izumo presses one bandaged finger to the younger man's lips, both to shut him up for the time being and to get him to make good on his promise to kiss his sore fingers. 

 

"I'm always fine," Izumo lies. Mikoto isn't in the position to oppose him, not with the gentle kisses he presses to Izumo's bandaids, but that's okay. Izumo will always love Suoh Mikoto when he can't call Izumo out on his bullshit just yet. 

 

They sit in silence for who knows how long. When Mikoto is done kissing all seven of Izumo's Totoro's, he moves up to Izumo's bandaged palm, kissing the white wraps with a softness Izumo rarely remembers the King is capable of. Then the kisses move up his arm, across shoulder, up towards Izumo's neck. The breath stutters in his throat at the first press of lips to his Adam's apple, Mikoto taking advantage by moving higher, right up under Izumo's jaw and nipping the skin there. He spends a few seconds sucking a pink mark before Izumo starts to get restless, then moves up so they're cheek to cheek. 

 

"Stop lying to me," Mikoto whispers against soft, soft skin, tilting his head up just enough to press a kiss to Izumo's temple. Izumo is almost thankful that he remembered to shave that morning, and thanks his past self for deciding not to let his stubble grow out more than it should. 

 

"You know I can't promise that," Izumo whispers back, bringing his right hand up to thread his fingers through Mikoto's hair. He idly brushes some of the knots out while Mikoto stays rooted to his spot, shallow breaths light and airy where they rustle some of Izumo's hair out of place. There's several seconds of the younger man not moving to do much else than kiss Izumo's temple, so he sighs and gives in. Just this once, of course. "Kiss me?" He asks, tugging on Mikoto's hair just enough to make sure the King didn't accidentally fall asleep on him. 

 

(The dick was prone to do that if he was comfortable enough, and Izumo was no stranger to his refrigerator of a man deciding he was comfortable enough to nap on.) 

 

Mikoto huffs in amusement and pulls back from resting their cheeks together, setting his forehead down on Izumo's. This kind of closeness, this kind of intimacy, Izumo can handle with delicacy. He can do this, he can let Mikoto push his glasses into his hair, can let his mouth close over the Kings', slow and unhurried and soft. 

 

Izumo is known to lose track of time like this. He'll blame it on the fact that they used to do this as school kids, finding empty hallways to kiss in or skipping classes in order to hide away in the locker rooms when no one was guaranteed to be in there. Maybe it's because Izumo has always been in love with the softest side of Mikoto he's ever bore witness to. 

 

The soft days are behind them, but it's nice to reminisce every once in a while like this. With one hand still fisted in Mikoto's hair, neither of the men take this any farther than what it is, doesn't rush this; it is impossible to force this, Izumo thinks. Of course, it's almost a given that Izumo starts to truly relax by the several-minute mark, the last of the tension in his shoulders finally draining out with Mikoto's assistance. 

 

A few more minutes (hours? Days? Weeks?) pass before Izumo pulls away, not stopping Mikoto from stealing one last kiss before Izumo presses their foreheads together once more. He can't feel his glasses in his hair anymore, and his hand is fuckin' _throbbing_ , but the only thing that matters in the bubble they've created is Mikoto rubbing circles into Izumo's thighs with his thumbs and the silence surrounding them in waves. 

 

"I have to apologize to the kids," Izumo sighs. 

 

"Yeah," Mikoto agrees, just as softly. 

 

"And I have to clean up my bar before it stains." 

 

"Yeah." 

 

"And we have to open the shop up again if Yata put the closed sign up." 

 

"Yeah." 

 

"What did you have for dinner last night?" 

 

"Yeah." 

 

" _Suoh Mikoto_." 

 

"What? Hey, that hurt!" The King whines, slapping his hand over his temple where Izumo flicked it. 

 

"So caught up in me you can't even pay attention?" Izumo smugly asks. Mikoto huffs at him, letting Izumo push him away enough to stand from his stool. 

 

"Don’t flatter yourself, Kusanagi," Mikoto says without heat. He bends down to pick up Izumo's glasses where they fell on the floor behind the stool, setting them back on Izumo's face despite his huffy attitude for being flicked. 

 

"Come on then, Red King. Let’s see how good you are at cleaning up blood stains from polished wood," Izumo teases. His good hand grabs Mikoto's before the younger can escape, pulling him gently towards the entrance to the rest of the bar. 

 

"Yeah, yeah," Mikoto grumbles. He doesn't stop Izumo. 

 

One day, Kusanagi Izumo is going to lose his Red King. One day, he'll be able to look back on this day as something good, something like character development or whatever the fuck, but for now he shoves a bucket in one of Mikoto's hands and bleach in the other. 

 

Until the day comes, Izumo is going to do his damn hardest to keep this memory locked away somewhere special. He swears on it.

**Author's Note:**

> i know this probably won't get a lot of recognition, all considering, but i finished K the other day and i am in absolute love with it.
> 
> i just. had to get this out. i'm on tumblr @castrumwritings where i sometimes take prompts, so have a blast, amigos.
> 
> and, as a side note to the end note: validate me pls. it's 1AM and ive missed kusanagi's birthday by two daysi


End file.
